Taku
by Ensign Joe
Summary: Here is is, my first fic, a tale of adventure and power and mystery and cheesecake in many chapters, two now, more soon. r/r please!
1. Chapter One

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There it was, hovering in plain sight, glinting and glittering against the backdrop of the clear, crisp October sky. He, as usual, was the first to spot it, and soon felt a quick flutter of excitement, that familiar, almost comforting sensation that could be likened to a hoard of Cornish pixies prancing about in his stomach as he watched so many others, totally unaware, pass beneath that miniscule glittering orb. In a flash, he was soaring, higher, higher, the cool breeze whipping about his face and tearing through his already tousled mop of jet-black hair. The earth seemed to slip away, becoming a distant blur beneath him, but he pushed on, faster now, his arm outstretched, straining to grab that little, winged golden ball. Still few of those he had left behind, totally absorbed in their own little tasks, had taken notice to this airborne drama, but those who did simply stared, agape, as he seemed to grow ever smaller, until he became a mere dark spot against the cloudless blue expanse above. Closer, closer, almost.... there.....yes! He had done it! He had captured the snitch! His fingers wrapped securely around it, and he could feel its light, feathery wings beating like mad in a vain attempt at escape. That very instant, it was as though the entire world, sprawled out below, had erupted, nay, exploded into a cacophonous, deafening roar. Thousands upon thousands of Hogwarts students were crowding onto the Quidditch field, cheering wildly, straining to catch a glimpse of the last-minute, game-winning catch. There, right up front, he could see his two best friends, Ron and Hermione, jumping up and down from sheer excitement and joy and screaming words of encouragement. As he landed with a gentle thud onto the grassy turf, he was nearly smothered by a sudden onslaught of teammates, classmates, and friends, who had come rushing over to congratulate him. Above the rather vocal adoration of those around him, he could hear Lee Jordan, the commentator of this Quidditch game, blaring out to the entire world the news of Gryffindor's miracle victory over its long-held rival, Slytherin, at the top of his lungs. "Yes folks, you just saw it with your own eyes! Harry Potter, possibly the best seeker Hogwarts has ever seen, has just caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins the game one-eighty to seventy! Once again, that astounding snitch snatch was made by none other than the Harry Potter! Yes, Harry Potter! Harry Potter...Harry Potter..."

"HARRY POTTER!!! Get up this instant boy!!! I will have none of your laziness! DID YOU HEAR ME?!? I said RIGHT NOW!!!"

"snzzzz.....mrgle.....gur aweyyy.....snitchy snitch......marumph..." Ripped away from a happy dreamland, Harry Potter ever-so-gradually awoke (in a manner of speaking) to a somewhat less-than idyllic actuality. He found himself curled up in a lumpy, tiny bed, his aunt, Petunia Dursley, towering over him, a look of deep disgust etched on her bony face. In her hands she clutched a damp mop and a bucket--never a good sign. Wordlessly, she thrust her odiferous load into Harry's arms, turned on her heel, and marched towards the door. Pausing there for a moment, she looked back at her nephew to bellow out some last instructions.

"All right, boy. My precious Dudley comes home today from his little friend's house, and I want this house SPARKLING! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? Everything must be PERFECTLY CLEAN! If I find so much as ONE SPOT, it's BACK TO THE CUPBOARD WITH YOU!!!" Petunia, now very red in the face, gave a curt nod and dashed out of Harry's room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen to fry up an extra package of bacon just so her enormous son, Dudley, wouldn't still be hungry after inhaling the first two.

Harry moaned, softly, dropped his newfound burden on his thin bed sheets, and fumbled around for his glasses. Finding them, he put them on and calmly surveyed his situation. For the past three days, he had been enjoying what could be almost likened to peace and quiet here at number four Privet Drive. His cousin, Dudley, had been visiting an old friend of his over in Bath, and for the first time in his life, he was being treated with relative civility in that house--he stayed away from his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and they, in turn, were more than happy to totally ignore him. This arrangement may have sounded quite lonely to anyone else, but to Harry, it was a much-needed break from the constant abuse that had become everyday life for him, living with the Dursleys. Of course, such a good thing couldn't last very long--Dudley was expected to arrive home this afternoon. With a sigh of surrender, he heaved himself out of bed and staggered over to the bathroom to fill the grimy bucket with soapy water. That task completed, he began mopping the hall floor, quietly, least Petunia find some way to punish him for being too loud. 

Oh well, he mused, four weeks to go...

Indeed, Harry had to survive only four more weeks at the Dursley's. Summer was coming to an end, and he would be getting his letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry soon enough, asking him to return for his fifth year there. In fact, it was the very idea of being back at Hogwarts, seeing his friends again, playing quidditch for the Gryffindor house team, perhaps paying a visit or two to Hogsmeade, that kept him from the brink of insanity for the past two and a half months. Thinking about it, he'd actually rather have a double potions class with the Slytherins than stay on Privet drive a day longer than he had to. 

At least Snape can't lock me up in some spider-ridden cupboard under a staircase whenever the mood hits him, thought Harry with a rueful half-smile, although he knew full well that the much-feared Potions professor would leap at the slightest chance to do so.

"VERNON!!! Get down here! Breakfast is done!" Petunia's piercing voice rang up from the kitchen, where she was still cooking, baking, and frying furiously, creating a "Welcome home Dudley diddleyums" meal that could, in Harry's opinion, be used to feed all of London for a week or so in case of an emergency. A moment later, there was a slight scuffling noise that seemed to emanate from the bedroom at the end of the hallway. The enormous wooden door sprang open, and out burst Uncle Vernon, his stocky, mustached face a tad redder than normal. He was still fiddling with his brand-new blue-and-orange tie, the one that Aunt Petunia had bought him especially for this occasion. She said that it made Vernon look especially distinguished, anyone else in their right mind would realize instantly that it gave him the appearance of some sort of purplish tropical bird, or perhaps a badly-dressed circus clown. Still hurrying towards the kitchen at breakneck speed, (before Petunia could catch her breath and screech at him some more), Vernon didn't realize his danger until it was too late. Totally unaware that his nephew had been swabbing the house, up and down, all morning long, he was about to swing around the corner and hurtle himself downstairs--and then the floor suddenly wasn't beneath him anymore. Harry, busy with his little mop and bucket, singing the Hogwarts' school song under his breath, and generally feeling very lonely and sorry for himself, glanced up just in time to see his day get worse. 

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty--AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

In an instant, it was all over. Harry lay spread-eagle, pinned down underneath his sprawling, not-so-dainty uncle, gasping for air. They, the walls, the floorboards, and even the ceiling were thoroughly drenched with sticky, frigid water--the now-empty bucket had rolled to a stop somewhere behind Vernon's left foot, and the mop was nowhere to be seen. 

"BOY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?! I WANT AN EXPLANATION! NOW!!!!"

As if the catastrophic events of that morning, plus the prospect of having to face his bullyish, porcine cousin for the remainder of the summer hadn't done enough to dampen Harry's mood (which wasn't all that cheery to begin with), he now found himself staring up into the bony, bitter features of Mrs. Petunia Dursley herself. That overused, familiar phrase popped into his head, If looks could kill... Well, if they could, Voldemort himself wouldn't stand a chance against that murderous glint in his aunt's icy gray eyes. Vernon, gathering himself together, leapt off of Harry and attempted to wring out his sopping, rumpled clothes, all the while shooting apologetic glances at his fuming wife. She, however, paid him no heed, as the whole of her rage was focused squarely on her nephew, who was now skittering about the slick hall floor in a hopeless search for a steadying handhold. 

"NOT AGAIN! Boy, you've screwed up for the last time..."

Harry, at last, found his voice...sort of, "Mer...urgle, I mean, I-" he stuttered, his throbbing brain racing for a plausible explanation that wouldn't land him in the cupboard. Petunia, of course, couldn't care less about what he had to say, and didn't wait to hear it, either. Her thin hand snatched a clump of ruffled dark hair, and she marched, Harry squirming in tow, down the steps. 

"Alright, you'll stay here and you'll stay out of trouble, do I make myself clear?" snarled his aunt, an ominous leer playing across her pale lips. "IN!" With a frightening burst of strength , she tossed her struggling nephew, hair first, into his darkened makeshift prison, and slammed the flimsy door behind him. 

"OW! What the...?"

Harry had made his unexpected landing, not on the floor (which would have made the second time today) but on...a something. A big something. He tentatively placed a hand on the smooth surface of this mystery object for a moment, wondering, but no sooner had he done this than a relieved sigh escaped him as he recognized the boxy shape, the wood paneling, and the brass buckles of his Hogwarts trunk. Inside that chest lay souvenirs of another world, a world far from the Dursleys, from Privet Drive, and from this blasted cupboard, a world where he was wanted, where he belonged, where he talked and laughed with his friends and scored points on the Quidditch team and feasted in the great hall and practiced making potions or performing spells and traveled by Floo powder and...

"DUDDERS!!! There's my darling boy! Oh, Dudleypoo, we missed you ever so very much!!"

Zippedy-do-dah. The telltale sounds of a car door slamming, a doorbell ring, and Petunia's ecstatic screeching drew Harry from his homesick (or rather, schoolsick) reverie, leaving him no choice but to face the disheartening facts: Dudley was back. Welcome to Hell, kid. Obviously far happier than he was about this turn of events, his aunt and uncle could be heard from the kitchen loudly celebrating the return of their spoiled son.

"Welcome back, Dudley my boy," Bellowed Vernon, apparently recovered from the little floor-slippery-when-wet incident of that morning, "good to have you home!"

"Oh my ickle Dudleykins, you look so pale! Was you trip home all right I hope? Here, put your bags down--now go upstairs and get some rest! You poor precious darling, you must be starved--I'm just fixing you a little snacky, I'll call you when I'm done...I'm so happy that you're home safe!" Harry managed to crack a weak smile. From the gloom of his childhood "bedroom", he could easily imagine his aunt fussing and twittering about, making sure the every whim and fancy of her "Ickle Dudleykins" was fulfilled. What was not so simple to picture in his mind was the idea that three days away from home on a simple visit could leave Dudley sick and pale for lack of nourishment. Not even three days of total starvation could render such an effect on someone who, at the age of fifteen, managed to not only outgrow his old clothes, but the bathtub as well.

Wait a minute...the festive voices had suddenly stopped. Out of curiosity, Harry pressed his ear to the wall, listening carefully, but could hear only silence. No, hold on...that sound...was it...footsteps? The brusque clinck of his aunt's stiletto-like high heels soon became discernable. Oh no, she was coming his way...not good. A few seconds later, the cupboard door was nearly wrenched off its hinges and a scowling Petunia Dursley materialized into view. 

"Boy...you will take my Dudley's things to his room for him...don't you dare drop a thing." Came the deadly whisper. Harry could do nothing but obey this new command, not wanting to discover what consequences would await him if he refused. 

So it came to be that Harry Potter, a young wizard currently enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whose name was renowned throughout the magical world as the hero who defeated the terrible Lord Voldemort and ended his eleven-year-long reign of horror all before the age of one, was now currently playing the role of bellhop for his despicable muggle cousin. Of course, It wouldn't have made a bit of difference to the Dursleys whether Harry was the Minister of Magic or so no-name squib who couldn't stand a cauldron upright--in their opinion, is fantastic abilities were nothing more than an abnormality, a nasty habit that must be broken, and, above all, a reason to hate him. Harry was, to them, a member of "that crowd", those individuals whom the Dursleys absolutely loathed for being so "unorthodox" and "out of the ordinary" (well, the number four Privet Drive type of ordinary, that is). Needless to say, he wasn't exactly a favorite around the household, and not a day went by when he was with Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley that they failed to remind him of that fact. 

Egad! What could Dudley possibly need to pack for a three day trip that could be so heavy?!? Harry wondered. His brick collection? Hauling the bulging suitcase up another step, he paused to catch his breath, and then, quite unexpectedly, his question was answered for him. The unmistakable smell of chocolate wafted up from the luggage below, filling Harry's nose with one of the reasons why Dudley could no longer get into the family car without at least twenty minutes time and considerable assistance. Arrg...Harry tried to dry his sweating hands on his ridiculously oversized hand-me-down jeans. His back ached, his muscles burned, his rib cage was still attempting to heal from the and a wave of nausea swept over him at the mere thought of lugging for another inch something that seemed to easily outweigh him. Perhaps he would rest here for just a minute more or so. He glanced upwards do see how much further he had left to climb, but his view was completely blocked by Dudley, or, more specifically, his elephantine backside, waddling up the stairs just a few feet ahead. Grumbling under his breath, Harry bent down--ignoring the spasm of pain that shot through his sore body at the slightest hint of movement--and wrapped his throbbing fingers tightly around the suitcase handle. Before he could straighten up and continue shakily upstairs, though, a strange noise from ahead of him caught his attention, a sharp smack followed by a great deal of thumpthumpthump-ing, and then what sounded like some sort of strangled whimper. He automatically looked back up, just in time for a single thought to race across his brain--deja-vu. 

In her manic frenzy of cleaning and dusting and polishing every square inch of the house, Petunia managed to overlook one little tiny detail. A damp, blue and white checkered washcloth, the very same that she had used to dry the newly-washed fine china earlier, lay rumpled on the topmost step. Presumably it had fallen out of Petunia's apron pocket when she was hauling Harry down to the cupboard and it simply evaded her ever-watchful mess radar. It didn't, however, evade Dudley. He stepped right on it. Resembling a cartoon character that had stepped on a banana peel, he flailed his arms wildly for a moment to regain his balance, but to no avail. His foot slipped right out from underneath him, sending all 425 pounds of Vernon and Petunia Dursley's pride and joy tumbling backwards, heels-over-head, down the stairway--and straight at Harry. He, on the other hand, could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot, absolutely petrified, watching his cousin the human avalanche thunder ever closer like some cheesy adventure movie filmed in slow motion. Like it often does during a such a catastrophe, the very passage of time itself seemed to slow to a mere crawl--giving Harry ample time to savor every moment of his imminent doom. 

The force of the collision hit him like a hundred well-placed stunning charms, and had about the same effect. The floor and ceiling were spinning wildly--the whole world had become one giant "Tilt-a-whorl". Had he hit the ground yet? What was going on? Was this really happening? Where did--Harry never did get to finish that last question. 


	2. Chapter Two

Bit by bit, tiny trickles of consciousness began to seep back into Harry's brain. As the first semblances of coherent thought began to pool together, he pried open his eyes, fully expecting to see the same dreary scene he did every morning--faded wallpaper, dusty, second hand furniture, and a single curtainless, drafty window. Instead the sight that greeted him was a rather upside-down view of the familiar avocado decor of the kitchen corridor. How extraordinarily strange. He was about to raise himself in a standing position to further investigate this phenomena until he came to the startling discovery that he couldn't. Any attempt at motion was met with a sort if numbing twinge that Harry supposed would be more painful if he could actually feel his limbs. He did, however, manage to twist his face into a rueful grin--he may be lying immobile on the hall floor, but the irony of the situation was inescapable. The great Harry Potter! The marvelous, magnificent young boy who single-handedly conquered Lord Voldemort! Was there anything he couldn't do? Thank shrieking socks and golden Galleons Malfoy couldn't see him here. This last thought brought up an interesting question to Harry's mind. Why exactly was he stretched out on his back at the bottom of the staircase? He searched through his memories of the day for an answer: got up, mopped floor, collided with Uncle Vernon, got thrown into cupboard, yanked out of cupboard, carried his heavy cousin's equally heavy luggage...ah yes. There is was, in the dim back recesses of his mind, the image of he and Dudley tangled together, hurtling through the air, and then the rather abruptly cut off picture of the floor rising up to smack him in the face. If that was what really happened, through, where _was_ Dudley now? Where were Vernon and Petunia, for that matter? Shouldn't they be screaming at him right now for whatever atrocity they wanted to blame on him at the moment? For disappointing them and not being totally crushed into oblivion by the fall?

As if in response, at that moment the front door was banged open as the entire Dursley family squeezed inside at once. The peaceful silence that had settled over Number Four Privet Drive in their absence had been mauled into an unrecognizable pulp by the acoustical marvel that is Mrs. Petunia Dursley in a snit. As Harry wasn't exactly in the position to leap up and see what all the commotion was about, he was resigned to stay where he was and listen to his aunt's cries.

"Oh, my POOR POOR baby Dudderdoo! Oh, my little baby angel! Oh why did this have to happen to such a wonderful boy??!!? Why do such HORRIBLE things have to happen to the best people!?! Now don't you dare worry a bit, my widdle Dudley-wudley, Mummy's going to make sure that you get everything you could ever possibly need to be comfortable during your convalescence--you need to rest and get better as soon as you can! Oh, my poor darling injured cherub!"

"There now, my boy, I'm amazed at how well you've held up through this whole mess," Vernon's basso growls offset his wife's falsetto yelping, "why you're a regular trooper, you are. You see that Petunia? Our Dudley can take a few hits with the best of 'em! High tolerance for pain, that is, the mark of the toughest rugby players in the nation--I told you he's destined for greatness! Look at him! A sprained ankle and none the worse for the wear! Why barely a peep out of him!" Dudley, in the meantime, had begun to wail and scream for candy and a soda and his new big screen TV because his eighth favorite show was coming on soon. This set Petunia all into a flutter, for her fantastically brave little injured soldier was not completely content, and she couldn't have _that_. She bolted into the kitchen to fetch some of the remnants of the morning's feast, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Harry, lying right in the middle of the hallway. Dudley's food momentarily forgotten, she spun to stare straight at her nephew straight on with the sort of expression that one might assume having just consumed a whopping mouthful of the indefinable grime underneath the refrigerator. 

"What the hell do you think you're still doing here!? HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD AFTER WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO MY DUDLEY YOU MONSTER!"

Harry was completely taken aback. What _he_ did to Dudley? If he was not entirely mistaken, _he_ was the one who had just recently reemerged into the conscious world and who was just beginning to remember the proper use of his legs. Before he could do or say anything, however, Petunia had grabbed him by the arm, pulled him up beside her, and began dragging him, unsteady and stumbling, though miraculously not seriously harmed, into the living room. There he saw Uncle Vernon and Dudley, the former still happily spewing on about the merits of his son, the future rugby star of the Earth; the latter donning a temporary ankle brace and leaning most of his weight onto two crutches that looked as though they could snap under the load at any second. Petunia marched straight past them and up to the front door, where she turned to fire another tirade at Harry. 

"This is FINALLY IT, boy, now you've done it...never should have taken you in in the first place, no, I should have been smarter than that and just dropped you off at some orphanage in India where no one's ever hear of you and left you there without another thought--should've learned my lesson after years with that dratted sister of mine...well NO MORE! Never again will you be a menace to the Dursley family, no, not when I'm though with you, you ungrateful abomination! I was kind enough to let you into my home, to feed you, to clothe you, to keep a roof over my head, and get not one word of thanks in return--and then you go and viciously attack my only baby boy! I knew something was wrong with you the day your parents got themselves killed and you appeared on our doorstep! Well that's all over now, thank god! You are to never, ever, ever again set so much as ONE FOOT over our threshold, do you understand me?!? Not you, or any of the weirdoes like you, are to come anywhere near my family with your spells or your robes or any more of your idiotic nonsense!" She tore the door open with near hysterical rage, Harry half-standing, half dangling from her clutches. He, on the other hand, was not frightened or angered by Petunia's words, but actually happier than he had been all summer. No more life on privet Drive suited him just fine. He could just gather up his things that Vernon was already tossing unceremoniously onto the lawn, catch a ride on the Knight Bus, and be sleeping soundly on a guest bed in the Weasely's house long before midnight. He was just contemplating whether he should show up at the Weasely's door or perhaps owl them first when it hit him that Petunia still hadn't let go of his arm. She was completely motionless, with a decidedly evil and vindictive air about her, which Harry believed didn't bode well for his leave-this-place-and-go-live-with-his-best-friend-for-the-summer plans. Without even turning her head, she once again addressed her nephew-turned-captive, her voice now having taken on a soft, ominous pitch.

"I've actually just had a better idea...you're going to pay for what you've done, boy. You're going to make up to Dudley all of the years that you've pestered him and tormented him...and for right now you'll start by helping him to be as happy and at ease as possible. You are to carry out his every instruction to the letter, do you hear? I want no complaints or you will be out in the streets and your things will be burned. Now move."

*** 

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRYYYYYYY! HARRRRRYYYYYYY! I'M HUNGRY AND I HAVEN'T GOT ALL DAY! HAAAAARRRRRY WHAT'S TAKING YOOOOOOOUUU?!?!?" 

Harry inwardly screamed for what seemed to be far too many times for just one morning. It had been nearly three weeks since Petunia had delegated him as Dudley's personal slave, and throughout that time Harry had managed to catch about five hours of sleep in all. Overworked and exhausted, he had to nearly forgo bathing and was developing a tic under his right eye. If he wasn't cooking breakfast for his cousin, he was plumping his pillow, changing the television station, fetching the phone, or performing a variety of odd little tricks for his amusement. By all rights, after three whole weeks of complete rest, Dudley's sprained ankle should have been long forgotten, but no, Petunia didn't want him to move and upset his already "delicate condition" and so had set up her pet with an elaborate and grossly overdone "second bedroom" in the living room: the foldout bed was remade with brand new sheets biweekly, the refrigerator had been moved in from the kitchen, Uncle Vernon brought his company laptop home from work so his son could play computer games to pass the time, and Dudley's five televisions and new DVD players had been set up around him so that he wouldn't have to move his head more than an inch to see what was on. He had even received a get well package from his aunt Marge the day before that had contained, among at least forty pounds of assorted sugary foods, a tiny silver bell, so that now every bellowed order to Harry the valet was accompanied by a mad tinkling sound. 

"Here you are, master Dudley, your lunch." Harry winced as he forced the words out as he had perhaps hundreds of times before. Ever since Dudley had first been given complete totalitarian power over the life of his relative, he had forced Harry to refer to him only as "Master Dudley" or "Sire" or "My Liege", more to infuriate and demean the poor boy than anything else. His girth had expanded with his ego, as well; three weeks of nothing to do but lie down and eat had brought his weight to an alarming extreme. The foldaway bed had begun to sag dangerously low, and the very largest pair of pajamas that Petunia could find in all of England threatened to tear into a thousand pieces, stretched tightly across his skin. Harry, in the meantime, had dropped nearly fifteen pounds due to the stress, and now trembled under the weight of Dudley's "Lunchtime Platter": a tray piled high with three grilled cheese sandwiches, two pounds of bacon, five sodas, three pieces of double chocolate cake, four chocolate bars, and an orange for good measure, all so that Dudley could "keep up his strength, the poor dear" as Petunia crooned. Harry set his cargo down onto a coffee table and turned to return to the kitchen to hunt for a scrap or two he could wolf down with this modicum of free time.

"Wait just there, now, Harry, I'm not done with you yet," commanded a reedy, whiny voice from behind him, "I see the mail truck has just came, so I want you to go get whatever it left for me. AND," continued the voice with a noticeable note of glee, "I want to you do it hopping on one foot."

It took all of Harry's self control not to simply kill Dudley on the spot as he whirled to stare into two delighted, piggish eyes. All he wanted was to leap up and strangle him, he wouldn't even have to use magic. He could even blame it on his cousin's dangerously constricting XXXXXL attire. Oh, it was just awful, he would say, feigning unknowing innocence, his shirt got too small around the collar and he choked! His hand was stayed, however, by the thought of what terrible horrors that Petunia and Vernon would visit upon him--he wouldn't see his friends, his school, or the light of day ever again--besides the fact that he really didn't want to commit murder. He sighed in utter maddening defeat.

"Yes master Dudley." _You great pig_, he added silently.

***

He hopped down the driveway, hoping fervently that his complaining knee wouldn't give out then and there. Finally, he reached the mailbox, yanked out a small packet of envelopes, and proceeded to rifle through them before he had to return to his housemaid/cook/entertainer/errand boy duties. Bills, advertisements, Hogwarts letter, an absurdly belated Easter-themed greeting card, more bills, pretty much standard fare. Just then he froze in place, not an easy task when his weight was balanced entirely on his right leg. A faint, wild hope had begun to dance about in the back of his mind. Was he just imagining it? Had he already degraded into a hallucinatory stage from malnourishment and lack of sleep? He nearly tore apart the pile of mail in his hand once again. There it was, there it _actually_ was. The same familiar thick parchment, the same green ink that glistened and sparkled in its same unfathomable way, and it was probably just a figment from Harry's near-crazed imagination, but it seemed to be glowing. As one final precaution, he broke open the Hogwart's seal on the back, making sure this wasn't an illusion.

Dear Mr. Potter:

We are pleased to welcome you back to

your fifth term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft

and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all 

necessary books and equipment. Term begins Sept.1.

We await your owl by no later than Monday, August 15.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

__

Deputy Headmistress 

Harry felt as though new life, new energy was suddenly pumped into every vein. He could have cried or leaped for joy, perhaps both, he was just far happier than he had ever been all summer long. He held in his hands his ticket to freedom, his passport away from his aunt and uncle, Privet drive, and, above all, form Dudley. Rather than celebrating, though, he froze once more, clutching the paper as though it was a vital part of his very being, as he watched Vernon Dursley emerge from the house and amble along the front walk, intent on some Saturday gardening judging from the large pruning shears that dangled from won gloved hand. He stopped when he noticed Harry, however, still balancing like a flamingo out by the mailbox.

"What the devil are you grinning at, boy?," he roared, even though, in all actuality, Harry was no more than five yards away, "have you completely lost your mind?" Harry, at that moment, became aware of the enormous, silly smile plastered across his face. He attempted to assemble his features into a sort of nonchalant, relaxed expression, masking his excitement. He spoke, barely able to keep his voice even and desperation-free.

"Oh, hello Uncle Vernon, lovely morning! I was just checking the mail, nothing much of excitement here today, although," he tossed into the conversation offhand, a mere afterthought, "my letter did come. You know, for my school and all. It seems I'll be out of your hair come September." Now it was Uncle Vernon's turn to grin, a sight which sent Harry's heart fleeing to his toes. That wasn't the way things were supposed to happen. No, Vernon was supposed to get angry, his big, beefy neck was supposed to turn all sorts of interesting shades of purple, and then he was supposed to grumble, curse everything in sight that could be at fault for him having a-a _wizard_ for a nephew, and finally ship Harry off to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, generally delighted overall to have him gone for another school year. Instead he was just _standing_ there, not even screaming at Harry for mentioning "his school" where neighbors might hear, just beaming like a young child who has been told an important secret. Doubts and fears began to assail Harry's thoughts, until Vernon opened his mouth again and confirmed them all.

"Oh, dear Harry, I completely forgot about that! Well, you see, the thing is that poor Dudley will be laid up for some time to come--we don't want that ankle taking a turn for the worst, now do we? I'm afraid that you really haven't finished your punishment, either, so you'll need to keep working hard to keep him content and comfortable. You're not going anywhere." 


End file.
